


Nom de Guerre

by RobinLorin



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, M/M, Miscommunication, Pre-Relationship, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:21:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fun fact about Porthos and d'Artagnan: it’s near impossible for the two of them to go undercover and pretend not to know each other. Once they get their assignments they need at least half a day to make up elaborate backstories about their false identities that allow them to still be besties. </p>
<p>(Meanwhile the captain is like, no one’s going to ask you this, two dudes can hang out without having to explain their life story, just act normal for chrissakes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nom de Guerre

**Author's Note:**

> Originally on [tumblr](http://hippity-hoppity-brigade.tumblr.com/post/127113085658/a-birthday-gift-for-why-this-kolaveri-machi-in).

_In fact, if Porthos had just been discovered by D'Artagnan, D'Artagnan had just been discovered by Porthos. The interest of the particular secret of each struck them both at the same instant. Nevertheless the first movement of the two men was to throw their arms around each other. What they wished to conceal from the bystanders, was not their friendship, but their names.”_

__\- The Vicomte de Bragelonne,__ Alexandre Dumas

* * *

 

It started with d'Artagnan and Porthos' first solo mission.

Athos was in the middle of giving his report on his and Aramis’ efforts to track down a group of counterfeiters when d’Artagnan and Porthos trooped in through the door, nodding to Treville and shaking the dust of the road off their hats.

D’Artagnan took up the thread after Athos had finished, giving his report on their own chase of the counterfeiters quickly and concisely. His first mission out with Porthos alone seemed to have been a rousing success; he and Porthos seemed no worse for wear, and Porthos was ineffectively trying to tamp down a fond half-smile that usually only arose whenever he found Aramis ridiculous.

Halfway through, d’Artagnan glanced at Porthos, who nodded. 

D'Artagnan cleared his throat and looked at Treville gravely. “We ran into a problem,” he said. “The criminals left behind to clean up were all local, looking for a bit of money before the winter. Before we could figure out where the old base of operations was, the local villagers realized we were after their fellows. They tipped off the counterfeiters and we had to chase them down.”

Treville frowned. “Did the locals pose a threat?”

“They were dispatched,” Porthos reassured him.

D’Artagnan winced. “I think one of them is still at the bottom of that well.”

“So you weren’t discovered,” Treville confirmed.

“Well, no,” said Porthos.

“But we could’ve been!” d’Artagnan insisted. “They were asking questions about where we came from and who we were, and how we knew each other, and we realized we didn’t know how to answer.”

Treville began to ask a question, and then reconsidered and asked a different one. “How is this a problem, exactly?”

“Well, we didn’t have a _cover_ ," said d'Artagnan, as he couldn't believe that the captain of the Musketeers was really asking him this. Treville idly considered assigning him to repair all the men's leather for his attitude. "And they were asking us in the middle of the town, with the counterfeiters all in earshot.”

“We couldn’t have shut them up right there,” Porthos explained. “It would have blown our cover.”

“Our non-existent cover,” d’Artagnan added quickly.

It was so, so tempting to rub his temples. But Treville couldn’t show weakness. He allowed himself a quick look at Athos, who seemed amused at Treville’s expense. “What are you getting at, gentlemen?”

“We want fake identities,” said Porthos.

Treville looked between them. “What, like papers?”

D’Artagnan crossed his arms. “Backstories. Motives. Reasonings for being at that place at that time.”

Treville gave in and rubbed his forehead. He allowed himself a deep sigh for good measure. “You’ve done fine without this rubbish so far.”

“Welll….” D’Artagnan shifted.

“It’s come up before, captain,” said Porthos apologetically. “We’ve gotten some funny looks, some questions. Usually we hush it up—”

“We fight them,” d’Artagnan explained.

“Thank you, d’Artagnan, I’d figured that out,” said Treville.

“But other times it would jeopardize the mission,” Porthos continued doggedly. His feet were planted firmly in a soldier's waiting stance; his arms were folded. He wasn't going to budge on this. 

“For God’s sake,” said Treville. “Can’t you think on your feet? I don’t have any other Musketeers asking me for false identities.”

Aramis, who was looking just as amused as Athos, made a point of stroking his moustaches contemplatively. “To be fair, captain,” he said, “you haven’t seen d’Artagnan when he’s trying to think up a lie.”

Treville pointedly ignored him and looked at Porthos. “Can’t you cover for him? I thought you’d have picked up something about bluffing from all your time at the cards table.”

Porthos looked abashed, but d’Artagnan said, “Won’t locals get suspicious when two men claiming to be best friends always arrive right before the locals are arrested by the Musketeers?”

“That’s your go-to cover?” said Treville. “Best friends?”

“Well, it’s true,” said Porthos. D’Artagnan visibly glowed.

Treville could feel himself weakening. “I’m not making up stories for you two,” he said firmly.

“Course not,” Porthos agreed quickly.

“Give us half a day before each mission and we’ll get all the details sorted out,” d’Artagnan promised earnestly.

“Christ,” Treville muttered.

He agreed, though, and the next day he delivered on his promise. D’Artagnan and Porthos were to follow the counterfeiters’ trail in one direction, while Aramis and Athos circled around in the other.

D’Artagnan saluted and bounced out of Treville’s office. Porthos trailed him shaking his head and chuckling, as if he wasn’t just as excited. 

D’Artagnan sat himself down at a mostly empty table in the yard and pulled a half-finished plate toward him.

“So,” he said through a mouthful of apple. “Why am I there? What’s my motivation?”

He drew blank stares from the Musketeers in the yard.

“You motivation is, you’re looking for bad guys.” Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and sat on the other side of the table.

D’Artagnan tsked. “Don’t be so dull. What do I want the bad guys to  _think_  is my motivation?”

Porthos sat down too, purposefully too close to d’Artagnan so their shoulders jostled companionably. The younger man obligingly inched over to make room. “You’re looking for treasure,” Porthos said.

D’Artagnan perked up. “Yeah?”

“Sure. You’ve heard there’s gold in the hills.”

“Is there really?”

Porthos shrugged and stole d’Artagnan’s apple.

“These facts matter, Porthos,” d’Artagnan said, unsuccessfully trying to steal his apple back. “How’ll they believe I’m a treasure hunter if no one has ever heard of gold in the area?”

Aramis called across the yard: “Athos, you’ve been here, haven’t you?”

Athos shook his head. “I’m not having any part in this.”

D’Artagnan jumped up. “That new recruit — he’s from there. He would know.”

Porthos stayed at the table, gnawing at the apple, until Athos caught his eye and raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t pretend you’re not going to go interrogate that poor recruit with him,” Athos said, amused.

Porthos ducked his head as he stood up. “I’m just taking my time.”

“Sure.”

Athos and Aramis watched Porthos cross the yard and disappear after d’Artagnan. They looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

Aramis made an obscene gesture.

Athos rolled his eyes again, but this time with a distinct air of resignation and admission.

Porthos and d’Artagnan returned an hour later, talking over each other in excitement.

“I’m a goat herder who lives just over the mountain ridge,” d’Artagnan announced once they had invaded Treville’s office. “I’m going they’re in search of food for my goats.”

“And I’m his long-lost childhood friend,” Porthos said. “We were separated years ago, but we just met on the road when I came through to take my shipment of champagne to Paris.”

“Is this really necessary?” asked Treville. He scowled at Aramis and Athos, who were doing their best impression of casual eavesdroppers while lurking in the doorway.

“If we want our subterfuge to work,” d’Artagnan insisted. “How will we fool them if we don’t believe it ourselves?” Porthos nodded supportively. 

Treville rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Just be gone at first light, all right?”

True to their word, they were gone long before then, both eager to see their plans in motion. The garrison enjoyed a week of relative peace (several minor duels, an escaped horse, and a minor fire notwithstanding), until the pair returned just after daybreak eight days later.

“Success!” d’Artagnan declared as he burst into the yard and swung off his horse.

“You found the lead counterfeiters?” Athos asked, coming forward to grab the reins.

“No, the fake identities!” D’Artagnan grinned at him, flushed and triumphant despite the weariness of his frame. “Everyone believed us! I got to talk about goats up until we got the village leader to admit that they’d harbored the counterfeiting gang a fortnight ago! I didn’t even know I  _knew_  that many uses for goat’s milk!”

“And,” said Porthos as he pulled his horse to a stop beside d’Artagnan’s, “we had plenty of time on the road to think up more of our own counterfeits.”

He grinned at d’Artagnan as if to say, “See what I did there?”

D’Artagnan grinned back, as if to say, “I see what you did there, and I love it.”

“Revolting,” Athos muttered. He cleared his throat when they both swung their heads around in synch to peer at him. “The captain will be pleased to hear your report. Aramis and I returned yesterday. We had about the same results as you.”

He watched them ascend the stairs to Treville’s office, hip to hip, shoulders knocking together. “Oh, and d’Artagnan?” he called. D’Artagnan swung around to look back at him. “Be sure to tell the captain all about your deep-cover identities,” he said seriously. “He’ll want to know.”

D’Artagnan nodded and grinned.

“So,” d’Artagnan said later, after he and Porthos had finished their report and Treville had loudly called it a night and left the garrison in the direction of his favorite pub. “We were thinking, our next cover should be that Porthos and I are joiners who’re setting up a furniture business together, and we need to go out to this town because they have a really nice crop of cherry trees.”

“We did research,” Porthos said, grinning. He and d’Artagnan knocked their cups against each other’s in a toast to their mutual brilliance.

“Why not pretend you’re brothers?” Aramis asked. Athos paused in pointedly ignoring the conversation in order to stare at him for a long moment.

“No,” said d’Artagnan quickly. “No, that wouldn’t — no one would would believe that.” He laughed, oddly high and nervous, and waved a hand between himself and Porthos.

“Brotherhood doesn’t always mean blood,” Aramis reminded him. “You could be adopted.”

“I, um. I don’t think I could — I don’t think so.”

“I agree,” Porthos said firmly. When the others looked at him, he avoided their eyes. “It just wouldn’t work.”

“Right, we’re in agreement,” d’Artagnan said quickly.

“Fine, then,” said Aramis. “Why can’t I be your cousin from Gascony? I’m getting tired of these missions done completely in silence.” He aimed a moue at Athos, who shrugged.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Aramis. You don’t have the right accent,” d’Artagnan said dismissively. 

_And Porthos does?_ Aramis didn’t ask. “Couldn’t I be your cousin from Spain, then?”

Surprisingly, Porthos spoke up this time. “No, because the story hinges on us having met in Alsace, see. And only he knows my aunt’s pickled berry recipe.”

Aramis threw up his hands. “If you two are so bent on remaining together, I’ll take the other mission with Athos. Athos, where are we going?”

“Before we set out again on another completely silent mission?” Athos said dryly. “To deliver a notice to the King’s cousin.”

Aramis brightened. “That's alright.”

“He’s seventy-seven,” said Athos.

“Oh, bollocks.”

The king’s cousin was horrible and smelly, and the mission was another dead-end, and by day ten Aramis was ready to return to the garrison and sleep for another ten days.

“I don’t care if we have to listen to another rendition of fake-me theater,” he groaned to Athos as their horses carried them over the last stretch of road. “I just want to be back in my own clothes that aren’t covered in mud.”

But the scene awaiting them in the garrison’s yard was colder than the river Aramis had fallen into: d’Artagnan in the stables, untacking the horses as if the saddles had done him personal wrong, over the stableboy’s nervous objections; and Porthos in the captain’s office alone.

“We didn’t find anything,” Porthos ground out as Aramis and Athos edged into the room. “Nothing else happened. We came back here. That’s all, sir.”

“That’s all,” Treville repeated.

Porthos clenched his jaw, shifting his weight into what all three recognized as his “I dare you to” stance. “Yes, sir.”

“And the absence of d’Artagnan in my office is just…” Treville tilted his head, inviting Porthos to supply an explanation. “Coincidence?”

“He had to take care of the horses, sir.”

“Right. Porthos, you know I don’t particularly care about the personal lives of my men. But partners need to have a solid relationship to be able to work together. If the two of you have an issue that impairs your ability to carry out a mission, then either you need to clear it up, or I need to know about it. Now. Is there a problem?”

Porthos stared straight ahead. “No, sir.”

“There better not be.” Treville dismissed him with a word and turned to Athos and Aramis. 

Athos reported on their progress dutifully, reminding himself every two minutes to relax his grip around his sword hilt, and doing his best to ignore Aramis' distracted fidgeting. He was on the verge of making a rudely hasty exit when Treville nodded, cut Athos off, and said, "That's fine. You can finish your report to me tomorrow. You're free to go, gentlemen." 

Not a minute later, Athos and Aramis were shucking off their heavy, distinctive cloaks and slipping into the teeming streets of Paris.

Athos made a beeline for Porthos’ bar of choice. Sure enough, Porthos was wedged into a corner of the pub, gripping a mug of ale hard enough to crack it and glaring stonily at the opposite wall. Athos pushed through the crowd of patrons and sat down at Porthos’ table.

“Don’t,” Porthos said warningly.

Athos was quiet for a few minutes, waiting as he was served a bottle of wine. He took a few sips.

Porthos cracked first. “Is Aramis following you?”

“No one knows I came here. Porthos.” Athos waited until the other man looked at him, and allowed a wry smile to twist his mouth. “I doubt your romantic failure can be worse than mine.”

Porthos laughed, short and surprised.

“Oh, fuck it,” he said. He expelled an explosive breath, shoulders drooping in defeat. “He — we — I kissed him.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Athos. “I thought this was what all your elaborate missions were leading up to.”

Porthos spread his hands wide. “I thought so too. But he went all red and ran away as soon as he could.”

Athos paused. “He didn’t run directly after you kissed him, did he?”

“Nearly threw himself out the window,” Porthos groaned.

“Hmm.” Athos sat in silence for a few minutes longer. Finally, as Porthos’ hands tightened around his mug to the point of cracking it, he asked, “When, exactly, did you kiss him?”

Porthos frowned at the table. “When the counterfeiters were coming up the hall.”  

“Perhaps he thought you were only using him as a cover,” Athos suggested. “Did the counterfeiters see you… embracing?”

“Yeah. D’Artagnan was saying something to them, but I was…” Porthos trailed off and touched his lips in an unconscious gesture.

“I’m not Aramis,” Athos said. “I’m not going to tell you what you want to hear to make you feel better.”

“I know,” Porthos said, some amusement lightening his face.

“So you may trust me when I say I have no doubt that d’Artagnan was equally in love with you as you are with him. Haven’t you seen how he looks at you?”

Porthos shook his head. “He looks at everyone like that. Athos, I appreciate this, but —”

“Go ask him,” Athos said.

“No.”

“If it suits you,” Athos said mildly. “But I never took you for a coward.”  

Porthos glared at him. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Is it working?”

Porthos ground his teeth. “Shut up.”

Two minutes later, he shoved his chair back and stalked toward the exit.

* * *

 

D’Artagnan was collapsed in a pathetic sprawl of limbs, face-down on his bed, when Aramis found him. He yelped when Aramis pulled him up by his hair, then saw who it was and glared at Aramis, burying himself in the bedclothes again. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m sure I don’t either,” lied Aramis. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t asphyxiate yourself on Madame Bonacieux’s knit comforter. Porthos has plans for those lips.”

D’Artagnan blanched and flushed in quick succession. “No he doesn’t. And I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Come now,” Aramis coaxed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What’s going on? You and Porthos were fine — excited, even, to go on that mission.” Aramis watched d’Artagnan carefully, seeing the emotions ripple over his expressive face — hurt, bitter regret. “Now you can’t even stay in the same room. What happened?”

“I —  _ugh_ ,” d’Artagnan said with feeling. He buried his face again, and the confession emerged from under two layers of blanket: “The cherry trees weren’t furniture trees.”

Aramis blinked. “What?”

“We miscalculated! The cherry trees are grown for their fruit, there was no way two furniture makers wouldn’t know that. The locals got suspicious so we had to come up with another cover on the fly and we kept changing our minds — and you know how bad I am at lying—” He raised his face to punch the bed. “So we said we were rivals who always follow each other and try to outwit the each, because that was one of our other covers—”

“Why.”

“—but then we’d already said that we knew each other, so we had to pretend we had this whole history, and I made something up about us trying to marry the same girl. But then we were infiltrating the base and the counterfeiters were coming down the hall right when we found a piece of their map, so I grabbed Porthos and I — I made up this backstory about our mutual beloved dying tragically and now because neither of us will ever love another we’ve become sad clandestine lovers and that’s why we’re hanging around that empty office, kissing—”

D’Artagnan froze, shoulders drawing tight. “I kissed him, okay?” he confessed into the blanket.

“And that’s… bad,” Aramis said.

D’Artagnan flopped around until he could glare at Aramis properly.  “Yeah, I’d say it’s fucking bad, considering he couldn’t look at me for the rest of the mission.”

“It was probably the tension of being on his guard,” Aramis said. “Porthos has never been very good at mixing business with pleasure.”

“No, I know he hates me. He couldn’t even look at me while I was trying to explain to the counterfeiters. I kept trying to catch his eye and he’d just stare at the wall.” D’Artagnan covered his eyes with an arm and groaned. “He’ll never talk to me again.”

“Alright, first of all, I have a monopoly on dramatic romantic regrets,” said Aramis. “Secondly, that’s a crock of shit.”

“This was all my idea,” d’Artagnan groaned into the crook of his elbow. “Porthos is going to think I wanted to come up with secret identities just so I could get into his pants.”

“Did you?” asked Aramis.

D’Artagnan lowered his arm and considered it. “Maybe.”

Aramis chose his words carefully. “Look, Athos isn’t nearly as bad to pair up on these partner missions with as I made it out to be. You know it — you like Athos. But you wanted to stay with Porthos.”

“Of course I did! I —” D’Artagnan broke off, looking anguished.

“More importantly,” Aramis said, nudging his knee against d’Artagnan’s side, “Porthos wanted to stay with you too.”

D’Artagnan went still, and then scrambled up to stare at Aramis. “That’s right. He did.”

“If Porthos doesn’t even want to hang out with his dearest, kindest, most thoughtful, chivalrous friend,” Aramis lay a hand on his own chest, ignoring d’Artagnan’s snort, “then there’s obviously someone who’s more important to him than myself.”

“Me?” d’Artagnan said, in a voice that barely dared to hope.

“I think so. But why don’t you go ask him yourself?” Aramis suggested.

D’Artagnan jumped off the bed. “I — I will! Where do you think he is?”

“If Athos has finished with him?” Aramis squinted out the window, gauging the time. “I’d say… about two streets away.”

D’Artagnan’s confused “What?” was drowned out by the furious knocks on the door.

“I’m off schedule,” Aramis said brightly. “Well, you should go see who it is, have fun with that. I’ll just stand here and be supportive.”

The door flew open before d’Artagnan could cross the room; Porthos stood in the doorway, his chest heaving.  

“D’Artagnan,” he said, and didn’t seem to know how to go on.

D’Artagnan responded in kind, saying “Porthos” and reached hesitantly across the space between them.

“Maybe we can try that again?” Porthos asked hopefully. “Without the criminals running through the door this time?”

“You mean,” D’Artagnan took a tentative step forward, “you wanted to kiss me?”

“Wanted to? I’ve been dreaming of it for months.”

D’Artagnan seemed to regain control of his limbs; he flung himself at Porthos, who held him fast and began to prove his word. At one point they kissed so long that Aramis truly began to fear for d’Artagnan’s respiratory system.

Aramis waited until the first round wound down; then he cleared his throat pointedly. “This is nice and I’m happy for the both of you, but I feel I’m intruding now…”

“I thought you didn’t like me!” D’Artagnan said to Porthos.

“I thought you regretted it,” Porthos laughed. He touched his forehead to d’Artagnan’s. “What a pair of fools we are.”

“I made up the cover about us being food testers for you,” D’Artagnan said. “I thought you might want the excuse to clean out a village’s pantry.”

Porthos laughed and traced d’Artagnan’s lips with his thumb. “Thank God you didn’t want to be my brother.”

“Never. I couldn’t do it. I could never feel that way about you.” D’Artagnan’s voice dropped to a murmur, and his eyes to Porthos’ mouth.

Round two began soon after. It lasted quite a bit longer than the first.

“Right,” said Aramis. “I’ll just see myself out then… Porthos, if you could just move out of the doorway… Oh, bullocks.”

Aramis made a speedy escape out of the window as round three made its stumbling, giggling way to the bed.

* * *

 

It wouldn’t be so bad if d’Artagnan didn’t keep whispering things to Porthos in an undertone that Treville could clearly overhear. He resisted the urge to beat himself senseless on his desk.

He settled for glaring his most fed-up glare at all of them. Athos looked vaguely offended by the treatment, but as far as Treville was concerned, if one of them was culpable, so were the others.

“I trust any disagreements that might have arisen are all sorted out, gentlemen?” he asked.

D’Artagnan and Porthos both shuffled a little. Not in embarrassment, as Treville might have hoped; more like abashed glee.

“Yes, captain,” d’Artagnan said. “We understand the mission. Can we saddle up now? Porthos and me are bitter rivals who always follow each other around so that we can best each other at everything, but never kill each other.”

“D’Artagnan,” said Treville, with all the patience he could muster, “no one is going to ask you this. I can’t imagine how it would come up in normal conversation, and I don’t want to imagine why you think it benefits the mission.”

D’Artagnan and Porthos glanced at each other and grinned.

“Well, captain,” said Porthos, eyes a-twinkling, “like you said. A Musketeer’s relationship with his partner affects the outcome of the mission. We’re just making our relations as enjoyable as possible.”

Treville pointed at the door. “ _Out_.”


End file.
